Five Boys Named James
by Quil Explodes
Summary: Yet another five things.


_5 boys named James..._

**I.**

_James was an ordinary Muggle boy. He was eleven years old._

He liked school. He liked making friends. His friend Ally copied his math homework, and he copied her English. He liked this arrangement.

He was eleven years old.

First, Ally got a letter. Green ink, fancy script. She smiled. _Pretty_, she said.

They opened it together. His head hurt as she smiled.

_Hogwarts_, it said. _Witches_, it said. _Wizards_.

James' head spun.

Ally laughed.

And then she was gone, in a whirlwind of preparations and hope and curiosity.

But she never forgot.

--

He saw her once more. She came home for Christmas.

She was still Ally, but she was Ally with magic, Ally with smiles, Ally with nothing but smiles.

She loved it.

But she was Ally, so she forgot about it for those wonderful five days when there was nothing but laughter and talk and snow, flying snowball forts and snowmen with ordinary carrot noses and magical scarves, black and yellow.

But then it was Christmas. It was Christmas and they sat by the tree together, and an owl flew through the window.

James jumped. Ally smiled.

But she never forgot.

--

There was a man, and he had the same sort of thing Ally did, all wooden and fancy and thrumming magic.

James frowned.

He was not like her. He was light--light hair, light eyes, light eyes shining through--and dark--black cloak, pulled tight, dark, almost blending with the night.

His parents fell first, with bursts of green light that made no sense but were the same shade as Ally's eyes.

The man looked at James, and James looked at the man. He got his first glimmering of understanding a second before those pale lips moved silently.

But she never forgot.

* * *

**II.**

James lived in the past.

He lived in his head, mostly, but also in the past.

Some lived in the future. Some preferred the present. James only liked the past.

It was solid and unchanging. Yes, there were things he could have done differently, and yes, there were things he'd rather not remember--but they were always the same.

Since he lived in the past, he did not hope. Since he lived in the past, he did not dream.

He had been walking. Just around the lake, looking up at the tall Gryffindor towers he knows he does not belong to, no matter what that old hat said.

He is not brave.

She was walking too.

There were two words, maybe three. A _hey_, a _look_, a _bye_.

Maybe a _see you later_.

Two people, one moment. Two people in the best of spirits, ready to smile at a stranger. Ready to share just a little piece of your heart.

But his heart broke right then, with that smile, with those dimples and that sparkle in her light green eyes. Careless. Unknowing of everything she caused him. Everything.

He never saw her again.

Sure, he _saw_--he smiled faintly as she smiled at something else. He stared wistfully as she laughed. He had never wanted anyone more. But that smile was never directed at him. That laugh was never because of him.

He lived in the past, because the past was all he had. Those few seconds by the lake, alone and optimistic. Together and friendly. For a moment.

--

She has beautiful eyes. A light, happy green, smiling. Framed by long black lashes. Beautiful.

He sighed, and remembered when those eyes had met his.

* * *

**III.**

James Gibbon was a Death Eater. No, that did not make him evil. No, that did not mean he was sadistic.

It meant he was loyal, and strong, and full of powerful, poisonous belief.

He felt strange tingling up and down his arm as he cast the Mark. He smiles. Hogwarts has never looked better.

And then they are fighting, that man with flaming red hair, that woman that smiled, the man with dusty grey-brown hair.

He cannot look at Hogwarts again. He sees Malfoy fly past him.

It is the heat of the battle.

He does not know who cast the curse, but he knows, as the green light shoots towards him, that he's happy it did not find its target--the woman is crying silently, a huge smile on her face--the man looks wearily around, and his disconcerting golden eyes meet James' for a moment, and then he is dead.

* * *

**IV.**

James Harold Potter. Three words. They mean everything.

There's not much to say about James Potter. Everyone knows everything already.

He is best friends with Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew. He plays Quidditch like it's the world. To him, it is.

For some reason, his friends call him _Prongs_. Girls like to giggle, blush, theorize.

He smiles mysteriously and does not tell.

Everyone knows.

He laughs when he is caught red-handed, he swallows when Lily's green eyes are furious, meeting his.

He has messy black hair that never stays still.

He gets away with things, somehow. It might be that charming smile, that grin that you can't help but sigh and wave off. It might be all those things he never tells anyone, things only his closest friends and maybe, someday, Lily Evans, know.

He loves with everything he has, everything he is. He gives everything to those he lets into his heart.

There's not much to say about James Potter.

Everyone knows.

* * *

**V.**

James Sirius Potter had a lot to live up to. At home: a father, a godfather, a friend, an everything. At school: two brilliant troublemakers, two exceptional war heroes. Everywhere: a tragedy.

James hated his name.

He wished he got to have a new start, like Rose, like Hugo. He wished that the only thing he was was only what _he_ was. He didn't want to be James Potter. He didn't want to be Sirius Black.

--

Maybe that's why he'd always liked George the most. He was everything he loved--trouble, laughter, tricks, pranks, flying toilet seats--without being those two dark-haired boys running through the Hogwarts halls, happy and red-handedly innocent and everything everyone wants and everything the teachers pretend to hate but really love.

--

He hated his name, but he hated more how he lived up to it. Yes, he was a beater, not a seeker, not a chaser, but it didn't matter. George was happy for him. For him?

He was handsome, funny. Charming, bright. He could think of pranks while writing _stellar_ astronomy essays. He could pull them off while looking utterly innocent and sipping his tea politely, watching the chaos unfold before him.

--

He knew he was missing something, though. He didn't have his James, his Sirius. His Fred.

He was missing.

And that's what he hated most of all.


End file.
